Slippery Slope
by LovelyLivy
Summary: Ziva stayed, and suddenly although everything isn't clear and lain out, his chest is lighter, and at least some right is in the world. The shower sex cliche. T/Z.


**This is, simply put; the shower sex scene cliche every writer needs in their distillery. This was requested by a dear friend of mine, Olivia, therefore it's dedicated to her. I'm a little out of practice with smut, so all and any reviews are very appreciated. They make my day. All I ask is that your criticism be kept constructive. Thanks! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS, and I do not own the last couple of lines. **

**Warning: explicit content ahead**

* * *

When he wakes in the morning, for a split second, he can't breathe.

His eyes flutter open drearily, half processing the fact his phone hasn't rang for a case, and the other half coming to the stark realization that either that was the most enticing wet dream he's had since high school, or Ziva should be next to him.

It made him irrationally disgruntled for a mere moment; when he thought that she hadn't woken in his arms like in the movies, like in his dreams.

Still, he laid an arm out softly, and when he didn't meet a warm body, that's when the air left his lungs- that's when his heart began beating double time, and his head spun.

Surely God couldn't be that cruel. Surely it wasn't a fantasy, and those kisses were real, and last night was material and true-

When his eyes finally followed suit of everything else, he relaxed, but only slightly.

There were fresh indentations- perfect for a shapely body- pressed into the cotton covers. His sharp hazel eyes were drawn to a long strand of dark hair that stood in contrast to the white of the pillow next to his own.

She wasn't there, though. Which, in his mind, on the scale of relationship fuck ups, leaving the morning after was kind of a biggie. It's not that he hadn't done it quite a few times to other women. But this was different.

He was, undeniably, alone.

A pang of regret ebbed at him, because he would never wish this hollow ache on anyone. If this is what all those women had felt-

But, _no. _

Because this was different. Ziva was Ziva, and even without the sex, this situation should have been more important- _he_ should have meant more- and damn, if a little bit of this whole instantaneous reaction wasn't rejection.

Most certainly a little pride.

These thoughts, these understandings, caress him like the bed does, like she did last night, and it provides him little comfort. They're quick, too. He rolls away from the mattress, and onto the balls of his feet, pulling on a pair of boxers he can't quite remember taking off.

They hadn't been drunk in the usual sense last night- but they had been inebriated. Off of _each other. _

A noise startles him senseless, and he reaches for his weapon that's obviously absent.

It takes him shorter than it did to figure out she wasn't in bed to piece together that it's a shower.

And he strolls to his bathroom with quickness in his step reminiscent of a little boy on Christmas morning. Because Ziva stayed, and suddenly although everything isn't clear and lain out, his chest is lighter, and at least some right is in the world.

* * *

He turns the doorknob quietly, cautiously, and he is met with a wall of steam. He can't help but inhale deeply, pupils dilating.

The mirror is fogged. The shower curtain outlines her silhouette in a brilliant fashion, and he hardens a little at the thought of her being this close- of being this wet.

He contemplates doing the gentleman-like thing, and just leaving a towel on the lid of the toilet.

But he's not a gentleman, far from it, really, and in hindsight acting voyeur to Ziva and doing absolutely nothing about it is entirely unjustifiable and idiotic and-

Well, really, it's something McGee would do. But, no, Probie has no place in his mind as of the moment he entered his bathroom. He ponders the audacity of his lovely little ninja- not thinking before hopping in his shower, probably using his not-so-manly body wash- and yeah, that's all kinds of hot-

And he doesn't hesitate to kick his boxers down his legs again, because at this point, he's too far gone to remember he still hasn't made his presence known.

Tony steps forward, nudging the water proof curtain away, stepping inside with the agility of a cat.

It's a rare occurrence; being able to surprise Ziva David. In fact, he can hardly remember ever doing it at all. Certainly not like this- with her naked and vulnerable.

But he does- and she turns, and although her elbow turned sharply and bruised a rib or two, he was still quicker. Smothering her scream with his mouth, he kisses her; the intrusive sound cutting off easily. Her hands reach blindly to tangle in his wetting hair.

This is a nice feeling; having her there- whole, and simply, and Ziva- because this time he processes every little detail. Drinks her in, really. He pushes her back against the wall, and he can tell she'd been essentially done with the basics of the shower the moment he catches a whiff of her mop of dripping curls that tangle all around them- a waterfall of fragrance and feminism.

He's glad she was basically done, for at this point a shower is the farthest thing from their minds. The water is hot, scalding even, and he reminds himself to ask her later why she prefers it like this.

His delves his tongue deep into her mouth, opening her up to him, groping her breast with one palm and driving her to the wall by her hip with the other. It takes him a moment to collect himself when her hands start running down his chest, probing him with wrinkling fingers. The texture is unusual, but not unpleasant.

She uses two fingers to form a ring, and then-

Well, sanity is lost, for a few seconds.

He pushes her back against the wall harder, rougher, and he winces to hear her head hit the white surface so loudly. But she doesn't seem to mind, her lips still tugged into a concentrated pout.

The water falls steadily, and begins to cool sublimely.

They're still kissing, and the stay that way; masses of sensitized nerves colliding and creating something vague and beautiful. He pulls her bottom lip into his mouth, sucks on it, and moves a hand down to rub his thumb where she needs it.

They struggle for friction like they struggle for dominance in a conversation.

He starts to think that maybe shower sex is the perfect summarization for their relationship- messy, and hard, and unbelievably complicated. But _them._

"Wrap your legs around my waist," he says, and it takes her a moment to postulate a proper response.

It's the first thing that's been said, and it does a number on them both to hear it.

She does so shakily, and digs her nails into the wet skin of his back as a safety. The tiles are so slick, and the air is so thick.

Her moan is heady and loud- and it scrapes the back of her throat daringly. When he enters her, she isn't ready, and although it isn't pleasant, it isn't painfully either. It drives a sensation deep within her, and makes her want to scream, and babble instructions, and cry at the sensation all at the same time. "Tony, don't stop," she keeps mumbling.

He won't stop trying to gain the upper hand.

She's tight, and for a still shudder, he wonders if he's going to hurt her; if he'll fall.

She digs her heels into his back, and bites down onto his shoulder to keep down a keening sound.

It's hard to concentrate on technique when she's like this. He swears he sees blood somewhere.

She starts saying other words, and they echo off the walls, beating. She's saying something in another language- maybe Hebrew- and he draws back from her heat with a jerk of his hips.

She splays a hand over her mouth, eyes trained on something above.

It's easier to finish it, then. He reaches down to offer a little extra assistance to her swaying abdomen between them, and works inside her thighs gently, and systematically.

Precise, quick movements- that's all it takes.

And she's gone, snapping like a rubber band. Her voice is throaty and sexy, and it takes him a little bit to realize he never actually-

But that doesn't matter, because Ziva takes care of it.

She knows, somehow.

She always knows.

* * *

"Gibbs still hasn't called us in," she states once they're both as dry as they're going to get, and her hair is up in a towel.

The scene is rather domestic; her in his shirt, making them coffee.

In his kitchen.

Tony doesn't answer her- but watches dauntingly. "Do you think he'll notice?" she wonders aloud.

He smiles wryly. "Gibbs notices everything. Especially when someone breaks a rule."

And suddenly, she's all grins, and her eyes are bright and alive- and it's nice.

He hasn't seen Ziva like this in a long time.

"Rules? I have yet to read of them."

He pulls her to his chest and kisses her mouth again, and grins against her lips.

"Ziva, you're a genius."


End file.
